Tangled Reins (Regencies 1)

Dorothea inclined her head, an action she managed to infuse with an arctic iciness. ‘Mr Buchanan. I’m afraid we were on the point of returning to Cavendish Square.’ Hazelmere’s lips twitched.

‘No matter, dear lady,’ said Edward Buchanan, airily gesturing. ‘I’ll be only too happy to join your escort.’

Dorothea nearly choked. Short of refusing him point-blank, there was nothing she could do. Her face a mask, she was forced to introduce him to her companions. The Marquis merely raised one black brow in acknowledgement, and Lord Fanshawe was similarly reticent. Neither showed any inclination to surrender their positions flanking the Darent sisters to Mr Buchanan. Dorothea almost sighed in relief, then tensed as she saw the gleam in Edward Buchanan’s eye. As they walked their horses towards the gate he launched into a discussion of harvesting techniques.

This time he had badly misjudged his victims. Hazelmere, brought up from infancy to the management of the vast Henry family estates, and Fanshawe, not yet come into his patrimony but already involved in running the Eglemont acres, both knew more about that topic than he did. Between them they efficiently rolled up the subject, then turned an inquisitorial light on Mr Buchanan himself. Under a subtle pressure he had no defence against, he found himself admitting that he possessed a country holding in Dorset. No, not particularly large. How large? Well, actually, quite small. Livestock? Not a great number. No, he had not yet launched into breeding.

Her side aching from suppressed laughter, Dorothea glanced back at Ferdie, just behind, surprising a beatific grin on the guileless face. Mr Dermont, too, appeared strangely entertained. And Cecily, who had not previously encountered Mr Buchanan, was ecstatic. Her grin left no doubt that she understood their lordships’ tactics. Dorothea returned to her sphinx-like contemplation of Mr Buchanan’s difficulties, presently being added to by Fanshawe. Her eyes strayed to Hazelmere’s face and, as if sensing her gaze, he looked down at her. The expression of unbridled hilarity that glowed for a moment in his eyes very nearly overset her.

Then Mr Buchanan, desperately seeking to change the subject, and by now conscious that his mettlesome mount could not hold a candle to any of the others in this group, said, ‘I’m most impressed with the quality of your horses, Miss Darent. I take it they’re hired?’

‘Why, yes. Ferdie gets them for us.’ She turned to Ferdie as she spoke and was surprised to see a peculiarly bla

nk, not to say wooden, expression on his face.

‘Ah. And which stable do they come from, Mr Acheson-Smythe, if I may make so bold as to enquire?’ asked Edward Buchanan.

‘You use the Titchfield Street stables, don’t you, Ferdie?’ said Hazelmere.

Ferdie started. ‘Oh! That is, yes! Titchfield Street!’ Dorothea wondered what on earth was the matter with him.

Hazelmere, well aware that there were no stables in Titchfield Street, and further, that, as far as he knew, there was no Titchfield Street in the metropolis, smiled amiably on Mr Buchanan as they reached the gate.

Mr Buchanan, seeing the smile, decided that he had borne enough in the interests of his future for one day. Suddenly recalling a pressing engagement, he regretfully took his leave of the party.

His departure left them in stricken silence, which lasted until he was out of sight. Then they all dissolved into laughter.

Finally, still flanked by Lords Hazelmere and Fanshawe and with Ferdie and Mr Dermont bringing up the rear, the Misses Darent returned to Cavendish Square. On the way their lordships maintained a steady flow of general conversation, including both young ladies impartially. Dorothea suspected that this evidence of impeccable behaviour was a ploy to convince her there had been no impropriety in their actions in the Park. With a reasonable idea of what she and Cecily could expect on future rides, she realised that they would have to make plans to at least minimise the opportunities for such manoeuvres. She was not optimistic of their chances of eliminating such occurrences altogether; their lordships were simply too experienced in such matters.

Arriving in Cavendish Square, she moved to dismount but was forestalled by Hazelmere, who lifted her down. Holding her for a moment between his hands, he looked down at her lovely face, serious for once. The hazel eyes glinted, then Cecily laughed and the moment was gone. Releasing her, he swept her a bow and, with his usual amused air, said, ‘Au revoir, Miss Darent. I dare say we’ll meet again tonight.’

Brought back to reality, Dorothea smiled her goodbyes and, finding Cecily at her elbow, entered Merion House.

Once inside, Mellow informed them that Lady Merion was resting before the ball and had insisted that her granddaughters do likewise. The Duchess of Richmond was entertaining tonight and her ball was one of the highlights of the Season. Held on the first Saturday of April, this was followed by all the coming-out balls. Traditionally the most important of these were held on the Wednesdays and Saturdays during the rest of April, sometimes stretching into May. While there were a number of lesser gatherings scheduled for the next Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, there was only one ball on the following Wednesday night—at Merion House. A few other mothers had originally planned to hold their daughters’ balls on that night too, but, having taken stock of the Darent sisters, these ladies had wisely decided to change their dates. Better to be a bit thinner of company than to have no company at all.

Her interlude with Hazelmere had given Dorothea food for thought, so, thinking her grandmother’s advice very timely, she and Cecily retired to their respective chambers, supposedly to rest.

Trimmer, her new maid, was waiting to help her change. Lady Merion and Witchett had decided that Betsy should stay with Cecily, as she was familiar with that young lady’s occasional indispositions. Dorothea’s style was more demanding of the attentions of a first-class dresser. When asked if she knew of any suitable candidate Witchett had eventually produced her niece, Trimmer. Luckily she and Dorothea had got on well, and Trimmer had, as her aunt before her, fallen under the spell of her lovely young mistress.

Pausing in the middle of the room to draw out the hat pin the Marquis had placed in her hair, Dorothea wished that Trimmer would go away, but did not have the heart to summarily dismiss her. She patiently waited while the attentive maid divested her of her outdoor clothes and left her enveloped in a green silk wrapper before letting her mind shut out the rest of the world and concentrate on the question of what she was to do about the Marquis of Hazelmere.

Sitting at her dressing-table, she loosened her hair and absent-mindedly brushed the gleaming tresses, staring unseeingly at her reflection in the mirror. From the moment she had first met him Hazelmere had made serious inroads against her heart’s defences. That much, she admitted, was incontrovertible fact. But up until now she had avoided considering the natural outcome of that situation.

Staring intently into her own green eyes, reflected in the highly polished surface, she sighed. It had taken her some time to understand the novel emotions he aroused in her. But after today she could no longer delude herself. Alone with him in the clearing in the Park, she had been quite sure he would kiss her. And she had wanted him to. Preferably as he had before by the blackberry bush. Scandalous it might have been, but she had been wishing for weeks that he would repeat the performance.

She laid the brush down and carefully rewound her hair. She knew she looked forward to meeting him wherever they went, and she derived much pleasure from his company, despite his high-handed ways, which still on occasion infuriated her. The disconcerting habit he had of reading her mind merely added spice to their encounters, and she thoroughly enjoyed their highly irregular conversations. When he was not with her, alternately mocking or provoking her, with that certain amused expression in his hazel eyes, she felt sadly flat and found little to please her. The inescapable conclusion was that he had captured her heart. That admitted, what exactly was she to do about it?

Rising to cross the room, she lay on her bed, idly playing with the tassels of the bedcurtain cord. While she was now sure of her feelings, what had she learnt of his? He certainly seemed genuinely attracted to her. But he was of an age when he would be expected to marry. Maybe he had simply, in his customary high-handed way, decided that she would do. Surely, if that was the case, and his interest in her was illusory, she would be able to tell? But he was a master at this game and she was a novice. In the normal way of things, it seemed certain that he would, at some point, offer for her hand. And, by the same agreed code of behaviour, she would accept him. The trouble was, she loved him. Did he love her?

She pondered that question for half an hour. Despite his ability to guess most of her thoughts, she felt sure that she had not yet betrayed the depth of her interest in him. It seemed prudent to shield her heart until he gave her some indication of his regard.

However, the present stage of innocuous dalliance could not last; this afternoon’s events proved that. Perhaps, during one of their numerous interludes, she could find a way of encouraging him to declare himself? The idea of encouraging such a man as Hazelmere brought a grin of amusement to her face. That, at least, should not prove too difficult. Feeling, for no particular reason, more confident, she placed her head on her pillow and, worn out by her cogitations, slept until Trimmer came to dress her for the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

If she had looked out of her window instead of into her mirror Dorothea would have seen Hazelmere, Fanshawe and Ferdie entering Hazelmere House. They left their mounts in the mews behind the mansion and walked back to the front door, deep in discussion of horseflesh. Hazelmere opened the door with his key and crossed the threshold, only to come to an immediate halt. Ferdie, following, cannoned into him and, peering around his shoulders, remarked in wonder, ‘Good lord!’

Hazelmere brought his quizzing glass to bear on the piles of band-boxes and trunks strewn about his hall. Seeing his butler attempting to approach through the welter of luggage, he enquired in a deceptively sweet voice, ‘Mytton, what exactly is all this?’

Mytton, knowing that tone, promptly replied, ‘Her ladyship has arrived, m’lord.’